


When Your Hands Won't Move

by yet_intrepid



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Courfeyrac’s writing has such spirit,” Enjolras said, glancing across the room to find Courfeyrac amid a group playing cards. “And his mind is very keen.” He looked back at Feuilly, who was still absentmindedly rubbing his paint-stained hands. “Here, give me your hand.”</p><p>Feuilly blinked. “Sorry?”</p><p>“You are in pain, are you not?” Enjolras asked simply. “I know what to do; I help Combeferre when he comes back tense from surgery or dissection.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>After a long day, Feuilly finds both relaxation and stimulation in talking with Enjolras. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	When Your Hands Won't Move

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecoffeetragedy (onlyacoffee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/gifts).



His hands were cramped from the long hours with a paintbrush and felt like they wouldn’t move anymore, but now he could curl them around a cup of coffee and let the warmth relieve the tension. His mind had been constrained, pressed into the mold of the obedient worker, but now it was free and he sat next to Enjolras, who was smiling as he read over Jehan’s latest pamphlet on the rights of the child, tomorrow’s citizen.

“How did it turn out?” Feuilly asked, setting down his cup after a long sip of coffee and carefully cracking his knuckles, one by one.

Enjolras looked up. “Excellent,” he said. “I’m on my second read, and it has shown no flaws whatsoever. The language, the ideals, the reasoning, all are superb.”

Feuilly smiled. “Jehan’s writing never fails to amaze me,” he said. “Oh, and I finally read that discourse against the Charter that Courfeyrac published once. It’s brilliant.”

“Courfeyrac’s writing has such spirit,” Enjolras said, glancing across the room to find Courfeyrac amid a group playing cards. “And his mind is very keen.” He looked back at Feuilly, who was still absentmindedly rubbing his paint-stained hands. “Here, give me your hand.”

Feuilly blinked. “Sorry?”

“You are in pain, are you not?” Enjolras asked simply. “I know what to do; I help Combeferre when he comes back tense from surgery or dissection.”

Feuilly stretched out his right hand. Enjolras took it in both of his and began to massage gently but firmly, working out the stiffness and tension.

“But on the topic of Jehan’s pamphlet,” Enjolras continued, as he worked steadily, and Feuilly drew in the occasional deep breath to keep himself from wincing at pain he had not even known existed, “he lays out a very convincing—and, I think, a rather complete—framework, for the rights of the child. Safety yet choice, both guidance and independence. Economic security, education, medical care, defenders since they cannot themselves resist oppression.”

Feuilly nodded. “So it’s not a pamphlet addressed to the government, or to parents—rather, one expressing an ideal.”

“Yes.” Enjolras pressed between Feuilly’s thumb and first finger, and Feuilly’s lips tightened at the pressure. “It’s divided into two sections, however—first, the legal and social rights of children, and then the rights of children at home.”

“I’d like to see it when you’re done,” Feuilly said, smiling. “It sounds fantastic…just the sort of subject on which Jehan would be at his best. Two sides, personal and political, but both of them with a great deal of heart.”

“Yes,” said Enjolras. “It is tinged with melancholy and yet bursting with hope. A superb piece of work, as I said.”

“I like the title,” Feuilly mused. “The reference to ‘The Rights of Man and Citizen’—evoking, of course, ‘The Rights of Woman and Citizeness’—the set just seems complete when you add ‘The Rights of the Child, Tomorrow’s Citizen.’

“It does.” Enjolras let go of Feuilly’s hand to hand him the pamphlet, then took his left hand and began to rub it instead. “By the way, are you writing anything of late? Your article on the conflict in Greece was quite widely read.”

Feuilly sighed. “I haven’t been,” he said. “Too busy…but that’s really good to hear about the article; I am glad my words could have some impact.” He had tried writing several times in the past two weeks since he’d published the article on Greece, but every time he’d sat down, his hands had cramped and so had his mind, and nothing had come.

“–But actually,” he went on, “today I was thinking I might want to write on the treatment of women in the workplace. Probably half of the fanpainters in the workshop where I’m employed are women, and they deal with all the injustices the men do, but they are even less encouraged to think about it. And beyond that, they are often not treated with decency; their persons are compromised by the foremen, by fellow workers, and even on occasion by customers. Some of them are of the sort that do not appear to mind, but I am wondering if that is merely because they have learned that to express displeasure at a man’s touch is not…not acceptable. Because they are of the lower class, and treated as lower yet. The idea only crossed my mind today, so I am not sure what points, exactly, I would be making, but I think something needs to be said on the matter.”

Enjolras glowed with gentle excitement. “Then I think you are just the one to say it, my friend,” he said. “Do talk to Combeferre, too; he has thought on the oppression of women, although not so much in the workplace.”

“I will,” said Feuilly, as Enjolras squeezed his hand amiably and let go. He finished off his now-lukewarm coffee and picked up Jehan’s pamphlet. “It’s been a long day,” he said, “and I should go.”

It had been a long day, but now his heart was warm with inspiration and friendship, and his hands would move.

He said goodbye to Enjolras, waved to the others, and headed home to scratch out his first vague thoughts on the oppression of women in the workplace.


End file.
